Night of the Dripping Tap
by Spot and Punk
Summary: This is it, the end. House gets home.
1. Chapter 1

**Night of the dripping tap**

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It wasn't true what they said about men and multi-tasking. House was sure now that he was successfully, and simultaneously, having a conversation with his Aunt and checking out the fine feminine form of his twelfth cousin three-times removed, or something.

He was pretty sure that whatever it was that they were talking about wasn't all that important seeing as his Aunt's attention was also distracted. In another feat of man-bility, House switched his attention away from the glorious ass toward the focus of his Aunt's gaze; his damn uncle.

The expression on his Aunt's face was one of pained acceptance. His Uncle was busy bending the ear off another House relative of uncertain name and heritage. The head attached to the ear in question seemed to be doing his best to catch House's eye perhaps in some elaborate rouse designed to break the dreadful drone of his Uncle's monologue. Knowing his leg wouldn't thank him, House stood quickly and marched off in the direction of the kitchen for another beer. No way was he getting sucked into either option - his uncle noticing him, or the un-known House and one of those mind-boggling exchanges of painful small talk.

There was a glimmer of regret at leaving his aunt all alone in the yard surrounded by Houses of varying degree. House actually had somewhat of a soft-spot for his Dad's sister and there had been that one time when she'd had bailed him out whilst his parents were away – and hadn't told them on their return. Reaching into the fridge for another insipid domestic excuse for alcohol, House rubbed at his belly and the annoying itch that had been bugging him all day. The tie round his neck was starting to feel like it was getting tighter by the second and he pulled at that too in an effort to liberate himself.

The wedding had been one of startling hypocrisy if the barely-there swell of his cousin's stomach was anything to go by. Why bother with the pretence of a full-blown church wedding if there was not even a sniff of pre-marriage abstinence? Really, _the only_ reason he had travelled this far was to check up on his mother; and for the fact that his aunt was calling in his debt to her. The words 'you owe me' had always held some sort of celestial power over him.

The bride and groom had gazed sickeningly at each other while they promised to honour each other under God's watchful eye or some other crap and House had sat sweating gently in the pew next to his mother. He had spent much of the ceremony dreading the moment when the hymn book came out. For a half-way decent piano player, his mother wasn't troubled by tuneful singing. He had thought back to the funeral of some great uncle and had fought back a fresh wave of hysterical laughter as he'd remembered her trying her very best to sing out her grief along with the rest of the congregation. Her voice had wobbled every which-way over each and every note but she had looked so, so solemn. That's what had killed him. He couldn't really be to blame for the half-stifled guffaws that had escaped as his mother had glared at him to behave and then given him the 'Mom Death-Grip' all the while maintaining that horrendous attempt at singing. He supposed his father was away in Vietnam or somewhere.

Replacing the memory back in the filing cabinet that was his mind, House fought back the urge to run screaming from the whole thing and strip down to his boxers in an effort to escape the suffocating heat that had been slowly getting the better of him through the day.

He glugged down nearly half the bottle of cool, wet, bubbling beer, took a breath and then gulped down the rest. Opening the fridge once more, he grabbed another bottle and put out a blind hand for the opener.

'Ooops big guy! Steady as she goes!'

Damnit. He'd been cornered.

'Hey Bob, the proud father huh?' he offered lamely.

'Oh, I sure am Gregs. There is no prouder moment in a father's life than the wed…'

House raised his eyes to the sky and suffered through yet another monologue requiring nothing more than an occasional nod or grunt in the right place. He had lost count of the seemingly never-ending one-sided conversations he had suffered through in the last twenty-four hours.

He very much regretted, down to his very bones, the promise he had made to his Aunt to 'behave-himself-and-act-like-a-normal-person-for-once-in-your-life-Greg'.

He was lost in the process of trying to keep his expression neutral yet appropriate when the kitchen door squeaked open and House saw his chance to make a limp for it.

'Hey Bob, good to talk to you. The head's calling.' Suppressing a smirk, House rushed past Great Aunt Grizelda or whomever and then realised he actually suddenly did need to visit the bathroom; and quickly.

Sitting on the toilet, House perched uncomfortably on the edge of the seat as wave after wave of cramps rolled over his belly. He knew he needed to just relax and let the contents go but the pain held him in some sort of weird paradox whereby it would hurt more to do that than to sit and wait it out.

Arched over his knees, with arms clamped tightly over his abdomen he ran through the food he had eaten over the course of his hellish stay. Summarizing that pretty much everything had been provided by caterers made him worry. No one else was showing signs of poisoning so that ruled the prawns out.

A knock on the door brought him back to the here and now and with it came a rush of foul smelling diarrhoea that splashed as it hit the bowl.

A groan of utter relief swept over House as he cleaned himself up and flushed. He pulled up his pants, washed and dried his hands and then opened the door.

The horrified expression on the face of the one and only Uncle Bob gave House a satisfied grin that stayed with him right the way through his struggle up the four flights of stairs and into the guest room he had been staying in. The stench he had left behind was beyond hideous and he knew it. In all his years serving the great unwashed, there were few more terrible olfactory insults worse than the stink of a man who was sick to his gut.

As he stripped off his damn jacket and tie, he unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt and lay back on the bed. The air conditioning was running but still the beads of sweat on his forehead continued to dribble back into his hair. He put it down to the terrible toilet explosion and let himself close his eyes.

He had paid back his debt, he'd behaved all day despite his uncle, despite the wedding and despite the awful, unbearable heat. The cramping had eased and the last Vicodin was kicking in nicely. He drifted off to sleep; smile still firmly in place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Night of the Dripping Tap, ****Chapter 2**

The day had been oppressively hot and humid. Rain had been hitting the window panes like nails dropping into a toolbox since the last of the guests had left. Wind howled under the sash frames, puffing the curtains out and sucking them in again as though the house itself were breathing.

The storm had raged violently and House had had visions of the whole place being lifted up and swept away by an enthusiastic gust. He hadn't been able to think of anything else here in this strange place. The angry sounds and brilliant flashes had consumed him and filled him with an exhilarating rush.

Once he'd realised that the worst of it was over, he'd been left super-charged and wide awake.

The insistent drip of a faulty tap somewhere down the hall had been the only excuse he'd needed. House fumbled in the dark for his cane and cautiously raised himself up off the lumpy mattress he hadn't been sleeping on.

The cool night air prickled over his sweaty skin as he felt along the wall for a way out of the unfamiliar room. Paying testimony to his heightened pilomotor reflex, hundreds of tiny bumps broke out across his body making hairs both downy and course stand up accusingly. Clad only in pyjama pants and a t-shirt, House opened the suitably creaky door and peaked guiltily around the edge.

Hesitant for only a minute, he let his cane make the first move following it as it led into the hallway. Stumbling blindly through the darkness, he let his left arm brush the wall to counter the feeling that he would fall off the end of the world if he put a foot down wrong.

Drawn by the impossibly loud sound of the tap in question, House found himself edging deeper and deeper into darkness. The sound of gentle murmuring formed a syncopated rhythm with the drops of water which House found curiously appealing.

Cast afloat with only this siren-like calling, House picked up his pace.

In direct relation to distance travelled, the dripping turned to a definite splashing as he neared the source of his night-time torment.

Just as he was about to push open the door to what he remembered as being the bathroom, a light snapped on and he froze mid-step, stunned and blinking.

'Little night-time trip to the head huh, Gregs?!'

'Uh, yeah, I uh…' gesturing weakly toward the door with his cane, House summoned up all of his willpower in an effort to be polite.

'Well, g'night then. See you in the mornin'!'

A sturdy slap to his upper arm forced House to grip the cane just that bit tighter but still his effort held up in the face of extreme provocation.

Just a few more hours and he would be home and free. In his own apartment, sitting on his own couch back in the land of the living with its civilised climate and no Uncle Bob.

Until it was time for him to take his flight he was determined to get at least some rest. Between the weird psycho dreams that had haunted him every time he had dropped off, the thunder bolts and the itch in his belly that was fast becoming quite the ache, House was as tired as they came.

He stepped into the bathroom and the sound of the tap disappeared behind the sudden pounding of blood House felt rush through his veins and arteries. His heart was doing its best to keep up with his body's demand and he could hear that too echoing round the tiled walls.

Black snow started to fog up his peripheral vision and House quickly grabbed onto the door frame to steady himself. His limbs filled with lead and jelly all at the same time and he dropped like a dead weight onto his knees. Thankfully, his position meant that when his head did hit the cool, tiled floor, the sound wasn't quite as sickening as it might have been.

He didn't have any space in his head to think this out. He couldn't move, he couldn't feel.

House was aware of the door hitting him in the ribs as he lay motionless on the floor. He was aware of his uncle shouting his name trying to get him to roll over, to wake up and then he wasn't aware anymore.

He came too as his uncle pulled up one of his eyelids for some purpose he wasn't sure of; he'd seen it done on the T.V. he suspected. The very second Bob had managed to pry his eyes open, House lurched further over onto his side and the contents of his stomach spilled in spectacular techni-colour glory all over the bath mat.

'Sorry about that…' he groaned as he spat out the last few pieces of chewed carrots from the back of his throat.

'Greg, are you alright? Can you tell me what happened?' Bob asked in a ridiculously sombre manner.

House wriggled free of the fat and hairy hand clamped around his arm and slowly sat himself up. He pushed the sweaty hair back off his forehead and pulled at his leg to get it to move to a less crappy position.

'I'm fine… decided on the cheap caterers huh?'

House managed to pull himself up to a weird half-standing half-lying position and shrugged. The ache in his belly was feeling a little sharp but he was still sure whatever it was, was nothing more than a bad prawn – or carrot.

'I think we better take you in to the hospital, get you checked over-'

'No! I'm fine and I'm even qualified to say that and everything, just give me a hand here will you?'

Somehow, with House using his uncle as a make-shift crutch, he made it back to his room without disturbing the rest of the overnight guests – including his mother. He plonked unceremoniously onto his bed and fought back a grievous insult about his uncle's lack of self control (he could never renege on a debt owed). All he wanted in the whole entire world at that moment was to be left alone to lie, to breathe, to sleep.

Even if it was hotter than all hell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Night of the Dripping Tap, Chapter 3**

The rest of the night had passed in a haze of heat and varying sensations of pain. He had stripped off all of his clothes to try to cool down and had pawed at his stomach to rid himself of the sharp, stabbing sensation deep in his belly. He had sweated, he had tossed, he had turned.

He was feeling disoriented and knew he needed to tell someone he was sick.

House sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the twisted sheets on his bed steadying himself with a hand to his forehead. He could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks and his skin was slick with sweat.

He managed to wobble into his pyjama pants – not disoriented enough to have everyone gawping at his leg - and reached across for his cane.

The rocking motion he had been swaying along with gave him the momentum he needed to stand. He took a minute to let his swimming head adjust to the gravitational pull of the horizontal before he attempted to lurch into the hallway.

'Mom…' he wheezed, dropping his head to counter the blood pounding around his skull.

The house was silent and he realised he had no idea of the time. It was light outside and the birds were tweeting away but no one was stirring thanks to the previous day's celebrations.

He bent double over his stomach and briefly laughed at the syncopated rhythm at play between the pain in his belly and the pain in his leg. Feeling like the very embodiment of a human bossa nova he made a pathetic attempt at a dash to the bathroom before the meagre contents of his stomach made a fine and glorious early morning appearance all over the wooden floor of the hallway.

The cat-like sound he made as his stomach clenched and contracted turned out to be enough to make his aunt come running from her bedroom.

'Woah there Greg! Guess you had a bit too much to drink last night huh?'

'Sick… get Mom-' House leaned heavily against the wall and spat out a few more rancid drops of bile as the smile on his aunt's face faded fast.

He closed his eyes to stop his eyes from watering as his uncle puttered out of their room wrapping his dressing gown around his waist.

'My God! What's the matter?!' turning her head up the corridor, Sarah shouted for Blythe to come quick as House retched again and again.

'He was sick last night too – thought it was food poisoning.' Bob supplied in place of something constructive to say.

'Greg! What?!' Blythe ran to her son and immediately put a hand to his head, 'He's burning up! Honey, what is it?'

All he could muster was a groan of agony as his empty stomach continued to clench helplessly and the pain moved from sharp and constant to stabbing and ferocious.

'Oh my God! Someone call 911!' she shouted as his cane fell form under him and he slumped down to the floor with a thud.

'App… ap… tell… appendix-' and with that, House passed-out.

The commotion that followed was a flurry of middle-aged aunts, uncles and cousins all flapping about in dressing gowns and mussed hair.

Distant voices fluttered over House's head and then a louder, gruffer one bellowed right in his ear.

'Sir? Sir? Can you hear me?' a paramedic shouted, 'No, he's out. Can someone tell me what happened?'

'It's his appendix, my son-' Blythe began only to be interrupted by the paramedic.

'Thank you Mam, I think we'll let the doctors at the hospital make that call.'

'My _son_, is a doctor thank _you_ so please, it's his appendix.'

House made a well-timed groan as he came round and even managed to glare at the paramedic testing his reflexes for no apparent reason that his fever-addled mind could fathom.

As the red-neck made for House's right knee with his little hammer, survivor's instinct kicked in and he sat up so suddenly that he almost knocked his saviour out.

House groaned as the hallway started to swim into focus. Blythe instantly supported him as he started to try to get up and hick-boy strapped a blood pressure cuff round his arm.

'My son is really sick, he needs to be in the hospital.' Blythe was starting to lose patience and the hick was really testing her. Her boy was not in good shape and she had full faith in his self-diagnosis.

As if in full agreement with his mother, House illustrated her point with another perfectly placed puke.

'Look, can we just get him to hospital, _now _please?!'

'Flight, got to get… airport…' House muttered deliriously as he was loaded onto the gurney and manoeuvred down the stairs.

'OK big guy, off we go.'

As House was lifted into the ambulance, Blythe was glad he was so out of it. She swore a bit too loudly as they bumped over every possible pot hole from her sister-in-law's house to the hospital. Even given her boy's unique ability to turn people almost instantly against him, the paramedics seemed to really have it in for him.

House himself continued to mutter incomprehensible words throughout the twenty minute journey. She could only catch the odd word but his mind seemed to be having a fine time with all the toxins running through his bloodstream. He muttered, he laughed, he frowned.

Blythe had always thought appendicitis was a fairly typical childhood thing and was bemused and appalled in equal measure to watch her very grown son get sicker and sicker as the ambulance lumbered on interminably.

Soon enough, the doors to the ambulance burst open just like they did on the TV and Blythe half expected, and hoped, George Clooney would be waiting to treat Greg. The gurney was lifted down and whooshed through a set of those bendy plastic doors. Blythe stumbled after, feeling a little lost and out of her depth.

Soaking up the familiar smell of antiseptic and mass meals being cooked somewhere, Blythe headed up to the reception desk to fill out the necessary paperwork.

She took the forms over to a chair in the waiting area and started to scribble the pen back and forth in an effort to get the ink going.

If there was anything she did know about taking Gregory House to the ER, it was that she was in for a long wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**Night of the Dripping Tap, Chapter 4**

House awoke in what he presumed to be the OR prep room of Lexington General with the overwhelming need to take a dump. If he didn't get to the bathroom in the very next instant, there would be a code brown emergency of the strongest odour.

He wiggled his index finger to try to balance out the strange weight caused by the pulse-ox monitor and pulled at the oxygen mask over his face.

His nose registered the antiseptic smell and his ears, the swishing about of bodies in scrubs. He tried to get up but was pushed down firmly by a pair of arms dressed in pink scrubs.

'We're going to put you out now Dr House, you're going to feel as though someone is strangling you – try not to panic, it will just be me pushing down on your oesophagus to make sure you don't vomit again and choke while the anaesthetic kicks in. Dr House? Ok?'

House managed a weak sounding groan in reply as the doctor pushed the necessary drugs into the cannula in the back of his hand. He knew the reasoning behind the somewhat Jacobean practice but was nevertheless totally unprepared for the reality. When he had been shot all that time ago, he hadn't had time to process a single thought other than his body going into survival mode. This time, he knew what was coming, why it was coming, and he didn't like it.

The anaesthetist pressed down hard on the junction between his stomach and oesophagus as House felt the paralytic portion of the anaesthetic take hold. He was totally helpless. A large part of his sepsis riddled mind thoroughly believed that this was some huge elaborate murder attempt and was trying very hard to panic. The tiny rational part of his mind counted down from ten like a good patient and House felt himself falling backward into the bed.

The next sensation House was aware of was the muffled whispering bobbing about him and a searing slice of heat snaking across his stomach. Briefly aware of feeling cold, his body gave up trying to make sense of his surroundings and plunged him back into a deep, deep sleep.

Cold, metallic air hissed, pulse-ox monitors bleeped gently and freshly sown-up patients groaned intermittently. Nurses whispered whilst writing up notes, checking IV lines and sneaking quick glances at those in their care.

Gregory House was breathing well and the wound on his abdomen had stopped oozing blood. The surgical nurse changed his saline IV and smoothed the sheets that covered him. He was due to wake any time now and she wanted to be ready in case he vomited. She busied herself around him for a few more minutes as she noticed his eyes starting to flicker from side to side behind his eyelids.

She had been a nurse long enough to know when a patient was about to come round. There was an almost imperceptible shift in their breathing pattern and some associated random muscle twitching. Very occasionally, they did as House was doing now and sat bolt upright shouting obscenities.

'Dr House! Dr House! Settle down, please!'

'I can't fucking breath! Fuck! Fuck! What have you –'

And with that, Gregory House, patient 0079, collapsed back onto the gurney and into a deep, deep unconscious sleep.

Once he had been out for a further three hours, a mandatory shot of adrenaline was administered and House shot straight back up again gasping for air as though he had been stranded at the bottom of the ocean.

'Jesus! What did you do?' he panted through each breath and clutched at his stomach.

'Welcome back Dr House! You had a little difficulty with the anaesthetic so we gave you a little adrenaline and everything seems to be back to normal now.' The gentle tone of her voice belied the rising panic that had started to creep into the recovery room. It had been a very long time since a patient had had so much difficulty in coming round.

'Now Dr House, the doctor wants to speak to you about your surgery – there's nothing to worry about but there is something you should know…'

Wired by the synthetic adrenaline coursing though his veins, House felt unnaturally alert. Starting at his toes, he wiggled all the small and major muscle groups until he was sure every bit of him was still attached and then forced himself to think more rationally. He'd had enough experiences of anaesthesia in his time to know that something had gone wrong even if his mind wasn't firing on all cylinders. Simple appys didn't do this.

By the time the surgeon had made it over to him, House had run his own diagnostic. Judging by the site of the incision and the array of drugs dripping into his IV, House had a list of potential diagnoses ready to throw at the unsuspecting surgeon. He was just getting ready to launch his attack when the nurse squeezed some Ativan into his IV port.

Determined to fight through the growing sluggishness filling his head, House was completely unprepared for the dulcet tones of his surgeon lulling him along with the Ativan into the guise of dumb-layman.

Angry with himself for letting someone (and a drug – when had he become that easy to dose?) get the better of him, House half listened and half grizzled as the surgeon explained what had happened during the surgery. He had to confess to being somewhat taken aback by the right-side Diverticulitis diagnosis – he hadn't seen that one coming.

While he listened to the surgeon explaining in simple terms that they had had to remove a section of his colon lost to infection, he fought back a feeble urge to tell him to shut the hell up. He made himself a promise right there and then that he wouldn't ever confess to missing his own only very slightly unusual diagnosis.

He didn't let himself think too hard about that niggling feeling that he, Doctor Gregory House, master of weird cases, solver of the unsolvable, had succumbed to something only slightly weird, only slightly left of centre and really, quite pedestrian.


	5. Chapter 5

**Nigh****t of the Dripping Tap, Chapter 5**

The guy in the bed next to his was close to death. House had checked his bright yellow pallor, heard his raspy breaths and listened to all the recriminations, retributions and redemption pleas he had been muttering in his morphine induced delirium.

Earlier that day, the guy had hefted his distended barrel-like belly from the gurney and thrown himself to the floor. He'd sworn at what House supposed was a spectre of death and warned that he wouldn't go without a fight then his gown had come open and his shrivelled rice and peas had forced House to thrown up for what had to be the thousandth time since he'd been ill. For someone in advanced stage liver failure he sure had a lot of fight left in him.

The nurses had been in and tied him to his bed with soft restraints avoiding all the lecherous pats to the ass he had been doling out. He'd continued to shout, swear and fart viciously throughout the day until the nurses came and added a little Ativan to his IV mix.

House had been sinking into the kind of sleep that made you lose track of time yet lasted only seconds. He'd felt like the dial on an analogue radio, tuning in and out from white noise to snatches of conversation and insane, morphine-crazy dreams. Lurched awake by the loud cackle of yet another of barrel-man's five hundred relatives coming in to say their last goodbye he stretched his mouth and longed for the cup of water just out of his reach on the night stand.

Lying prone as he was, he felt like all the muscles holding his skeleton together had been replaced with some sort of lead syrup. He didn't have the energy or the inclination to move and started to feel himself slipping under again, eyes drooping like a hung-over student in a lecture.

His head lolled off to the side and his body listed slightly with it. He was leaning back against a stack of pillows to help his stomach and felt like he was lying on a million puffs of cotton wool. There was a nagging pain but he had nowhere to be, no Cuddy trying to dupe him into some kind of deal, no Wilson trying to second guess him and rat him out for trying to score; just him…and barrel-man.

'YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME YOU BASTARD!!!'

House jerked awake once again and felt a stitch twang a warning in his belly. He managed to get his head to loll to the left so he could see what was going on and was faced with a very yellow man trying to escape from his restraints.

'NO! NO! NO! I'LL-' and with one final horrendous wheeze, Barrel-man was no more.

House stared open-mouthed and forced himself to flap his hand about in the hope of hitting his call button. He had seen death so many countless times before and this was no different. It was just a little, unexpected.

'Ah, Dr House, you're awake! What can I do for you?' a jolly, middle-aged nurse beamed as she waltzed over to him.

'He uh-' House barely lifted his arm to indicate the reason for his call, 'he croaked.'

'Oh, oh I see… well. You just hold tight Dr House and I'll sort everything out…' the nurse twittered on as she drew the curtains around the corpse and ran out to get help.

All the excitement of the day had caught up with House and he tried valiantly to succumb to the deep, deep sleep that he craved. Nurse Nightmare had other ideas however and while the morgue team busied themselves with the barrel-shaped cadaver she busied herself with him. She smoothed his brow, checked his foley, shoved a thermometer in his ear and pulled the sheets up tight under his armpits.

'Huh, temp's a little high there Dr House. Think I'll get the doctor to take a look at your wound. I won't be a minute.'

'Please, take as many as you need.' House replied glad to hear a little snark back in his voice. He touched his fingers to his wound gingerly. It had been three days since he'd been brought in and three days since he'd had any kind of decent sleep. He was aware of his obvious tolerance for powerful narcotics but even the strong dose morphine they had him on wasn't taking the edge off the nauseating pain now radiating around the fresh wound in his stomach. If he hadn't needed that damn shot of adrenaline to bring him round from the surgery he might not have been spending so much time having imaginary conversations with the rabbit that kept sitting on his chest and be able to figure out whatever it was that was bothering his belly so much.

'Fucking bunny…' he muttered.

'I'm sorry Dr House?' she stopped and turned back. 'Did you say something?'

He batted at the hallucination tickling his nose and the rabbit hopped off, following the nurse, in the direction of the bathroom. House decided that he had had enough of lying down and levered himself up slowly to follow. He had an overwhelming urge to evacuate his bowels and couldn't bear the idea of a nurse bringing one of those little bowls again.

He struggled to detach the foley from its stand and almost balked at the weight of his urine sloshing about in the bag like a goldfish at the fair. Dragging the IV stand behind him, he staggered off in the direction of the bathroom, cane tilting violently, and wobbled left and right as the room tilted perversely this way and that. He'd almost made it half way there when vertigo claimed him and he hit the deck like a sack of old shoes.

At that very moment, Nurse Nightmare had come back into the room with a doctor in a white coat fluttering behind her.

'Oh! Dr House! What happened?!'

The friendly looking nurse and terrified looking junior doctor flapped about and managed to drag House up to standing between them. Amidst the horrible tangle of gown, cane, IV line and foley House flopped uselessly like a rag doll.

Until he felt his ass hit the bed once more, House had lost all sense of which way was up and which way was down. It felt as though all the blood in his body had been ordered to collect in the extremities and wait out this gravitational miss-hap.

Once his head had stopped spinning and he felt like his blood was starting to reach the rest of his body, House noticed the green, blood-smattered goo oozing out of the wound on his belly and seeping through his gown.

'That's not right…' he thought.

Not a second later, House was out like a light. Again.

Hours or possibly seconds later, the pillow felt wet under his head and he swiped at the sweat pouring down his face and stinging his eyes. His cheeks were burning and he could feel the gown that was almost covering him stick to his flesh like glue. Blobs of colour ran across his eyes and his throat made him feel like he'd eaten a bottle of talcum powder.

Through this hot, hot misery, he was aware of the doctor whose balls hadn't dropped yet prodding his belly. Every time baby doc made contact with his skin, House felt flames leap from the wound and flash through his veins.

Somewhere he could hear the incoherent moan of some poor sap and couldn't connect it to the sound he did not know he was making.

He batted at the hands clawing all over him and scratched at his stomach to try to relieve the maddening sensations prickling all over his body.

'Woah there, Dr House! You're ok, you're spiking a fever and we're trying to cool you down.'

The syrupy voice glooped into his ears and did nothing to calm the savage and jerky movements his body was making with no direction from him.

'Ok, ok I think we need to put a drain in that wound, looks pretty nasty…' Nurse Nightmare swished out of the room while Baby Doc readied himself to insert the drain – for what House deeply hoped wasn't the first time.

'Now Dr House, what I need to do is… I need… Now what we…'

'What Doctor Valentine means is that this isn't a nice experience, Doctor House. I'm sure you know what we're going to do but you must try to prepare for the experience. Don't try to fight the tube okay? Just keep swallowing, work with me then it will all be much easier.'

Feeling strangely reassured by a middle-aged woman muttering about a procedure he himself had done a thousand times, House allowed himself to contemplate nurses having a purpose beyond their urine collection abilities.

This feeling lasted a matter of seconds until he felt himself start to gag around the tube being shoved up his nose and down his throat squashing any protest.

He felt like he was going to suffocate and was helpless against the overwhelming fear that he was going to see out his final miserable moments wriggling like a fish caught on a hook.

House felt the tube hit the posterior pharyngeal wall and counted to two before he predictably started to gag. The nurse took this opportunity to explain to the dumb-struck junior doctor that this was perfectly normal and kept on feeding the tube down House's oesophagus. Once she had it in place, the nurse – who by now House thought entirely… competent – listened to his belly with the doctor's stethoscope to check its location. With a grin that only hinted at satisfaction, she attached the tube to a drainage bag and House's stomach breathed a sigh of relief, glad as it was of a well-earned rest.


	6. Chapter 6

**Nigh****t of the Dripping Tap, Chapter 6**

On what he thought may have been the sixth night of his incarceration in 'Wherever-the-hell General', a new room mate was delivered to House's room. The unconscious form had that unique smell of death and House began to feel like some sort of bizarre Grim Reaper as he prepared for yet another visit from the morgue team.

It was something that wasn't written about in any medical texts or talked about in med-school lectures. It was a kind of rite of passage that the freshly qualified had to discover for themselves. It was almost impossible to detect and just as hard to describe. There was, nevertheless, a distinct odour to those moments from death; more specifically, those who were moments from death after a long illness. It was as though the body had already begun to rot.

It lingered just under the danger radar and had a pungent quality that stuck to nose hairs and made olfactory sensors react over and over again, even days later. House sniffed like a hound trying to trap the perfect adjective to pin down this rank stench.

The second he thought he had formed the appropriate word on the tip of his tongue, House heard the man wheeze and rasp as he let out an almighty jet of wind. Having completed a rotation on Digestive Diseases in the past, House was all too aware of one of the most problematic side-effects to be suffered on this kind of ward; horrible, horrible gas.

The rotting, meaty, eggy, visibly green mist emitted by his latest room-mate was all it took to send House grabbling for an emesis basin before he new what he was doing.

His stomach heaved, clenched and nothing, _nothing _was coming up. With the NG tube having been in place for three days now, his body was forcing him through an entirely pointless endeavour. He felt like his eyes were about to pop right out of his sockets as the heaving continued. Tears streamed down his face and the staples and stitches holding him together felt like they were straining at the seams. Right at that moment, he didn't think he could be any more of a sorry ass if he tried.

With a loud creaking groan, the man let another lethal blast go and along with that, went his final breath. Unfortunately for the green-faced House, even death didn't free him from suffering through the misery of the noxious gases released from this guy. Another unfortunate fact that he happened to know was how long it took for a body to release trapped air.

The next gaseous eruption was enough to convince him to call for the Nurse. The stench, coming deeper as it was from within the body, was getting more and more horrific.

He yelled weakly between wretches and stabbed at the call button in an effort to escape the fetid room.

'Doctor House, what can I-' on seeing that House was almost half way out of his bed and simultaneously getting hit by the outrageous smell, the nurse continued. 'Oh my, I see what you mean… hold tight I'll get you a chair.'

With the retching, the pain in his belly and the unending torment of his leg, House saw no other option but to wait for the nurse and the wheelchair. The absolute only positive he could see was that he wasn't about to be pushed down the halls of PPTH in a crappy gown whilst trying, and failing, to puke his guts out.

To give her her due, the nurse arrived back quickly enough and House almost fell head first into her arms in an effort to escape.

'Steady there Doctor House, let's just get you into this safely. Now, lock your arms around my neck and let me take your weight okay?' He did as she asked and hoped that not all of his bare ass was glowing away to the general public. 'That's it, now, I'm going to lower you down and you must let me do the work. The last thing we want is any burst staples or stitches right?!'

With a few grunts and well placed groans, House and the nurse managed to get him sitting safely in the chair. She pushed him a little too quickly out of the stinking room and his head went spinning off into blackness.

When he came too he found himself parked in a small courtyard garden. The very first thing he did was to take a lungful of pure, unfettered air and he smiled as all his alveoli cried out in relief. His head stopped spinning and he experimentally turned it left and right both to test its steadiness and seek out the nurse who was surely sticking with her charge.

'Welcome back again, Dr House!'

_J__esus, she was like a tube of Crazy Glue._

'I thought you'd like some uh, fresh air. I'm just gonna sit right here until you're ready to go back. You just go on and pretend like I'm not here okay?'

House grunted an acknowledgment and made do with the fact that this was the closest he would come to solitude while he remained incarcerated in the goddam suburbs.

The air around him was clean, crisp and cool. The leaves on the trees were the fecund, vibrant green that only occurs for those few days after the buds first unfurl, and the grass was tipped with drops of dew. A small brown bird tweeted mournfully for its mate and a snail slithered slowly across the path in front of him.

The courtyard was surrounded on four sides by huge glass windows that allowed a glimpse into the corridors of the hospital. House watched lazily as doctors and nurses buzzed about inside. He felt a million miles away from home.

He had no real concept of time and an even more tentative grasp on what day it might be. It was useful then to know that dew meant the morning after the proverbial long night had finally risen.

The air felt cold through his gown and he realised just how disgusting he felt. He hadn't had a shower for who-knows how long and the stubble on his face was rapidly reaching beardic-proportions. He rubbed at his eyes and felt the grease on his skin and the traces of dried sweat ingrained in his wrinkles.

The last however-many days felt like they'd passed in a blur and he was grateful for this trip outdoors. The chance to anchor himself in a familiar world let him feel like he might actually escape the hell of illness. Inside, he felt stifled; he couldn't sleep, he was filthy, he was sick.

He let his breath out even and slow. His head dropped onto his chest feeling suddenly too heavy to lift. His eye-lids drooped and his focus was too fuzzy to lock onto anything in particular.

House felt himself sinking into the wheelchair as though it were a black-hole into another time, another place. Sleep claimed him and he did not protest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Night of the Dripping Tap, Chapter 7**

House lay paralysed on the bed. Even if he had wanted to, there was no way he could move. He thought drolly that he must weigh in excess of four hundred and fifty pounds. There was a man sitting on his chest who jiggled when he laughed and a flock of bunnies skipped and jumped over his legs.

Further down in the brick tunnel he was wedged in, House saw his mother. _Strange that she would come down this far_, he thought then laughed again.

'Gregory!' she called, and House giggled.

He couldn't contain the snorts and sniggers that were exploding out of his mouth. The man who wouldn't budge from his position jiggled and jiggled fixing him with a cold, hard stare.

Flapping his arms pathetically, huge swathes of skin wobbled under him. A rabbit started nipping at his stomach and House tried to brush it away. Damn rabbits.

He flapped again and this time his fingers curled around the man's arm. It felt hairy and strong and House reached for the fingers with his own. He drew his hand away quickly when he touched the cold, hard metal of a gun.

All his senses were confused and he couldn't tell which way was up or where he was in relation to time and space.

'Over here Gregory!' his mother again, _didn't she realise the danger she was in?_ Between the rabbits and the gun, House's body was twitching, and wobbling, like he was seven again and being tickled by his father.

Thousands of cool hands stroked across his forehead and he felt like he couldn't take any more sensation. He wanted to just let the rabbits have their literal pound of flesh and for the gun to just shoot him and put an end to it.

'Gregory! Gregory!' he tried in vain to warn her away but his mother was nothing if not persistent.

'Doctor House? Doctor House?' _God, what now?_ 'I need you to wake up for me now, Doctor House?'

Appearing further away in the tunnel the man with the gun turned and aimed directly at his own leg. The shot reverberated off the closing walls and the bullet ricocheted violently zinging off the walls of the tunnel. House felt his heart pound and couldn't catch his breath. The man was limping toward him getting faster with every passing second.

'Gregory?'

'Doctor House?'

Blood was oozing out of the corners of the man's mouth and the smile on his face formed a permanent rictus. House's heart pounded furiously and to say he was more terrified than he had ever been in his life was an understatement.

Nothing was making sense. There was no logic or reason and images swam across his eyes looping and swirling like drunken handwriting.

'Greg, honey?'

The man was getting closer and House watched horrified as the blood pouring out of the giant hole in his thigh morphed into miniature replicas of the patient with the stinking gas.

He found himself to be tied and bound to the floor. Every muscle he had flexed in an effort to free himself. No way was he was going to succumb to death by noxious inhalation.

'Doctor House, you must wake up now. DOCTOR HOUSE?!'

There was something buzzing in his ear and someone was shaking his shoulder.

'Gregory, honey, it's okay, come on and wake up now.'

He felt the ties that bound him loosen and slacken. He wriggled free and turned away from the horror facing him and readied himself to run.

He sucked clean air into his chest and blew out the sulphuric vapour. In and out, in and out. His heart calmed and slowed and House thought for a minute how relaxed he was feeling.

'I shouldn't feel like this… I shoul-'

'Doctor House are you okay? Are you in pain?'

House's eyes snapped open and fixed on his mother. He levered himself up into a sitting position and tried to blink the confusion away.

'You had a nightmare, we couldn't wake you, are you okay?' the nurse shoved a thermometer in his ear and he heard it bleep out its reading. 'I'll give you a few minutes to wake up then we'll take another look at your wound, see what's going on, okay?'

With a half-formed smile she rushed out of the room leaving House and his mother to sort through a mess of random emotions.

'Mom?'

'Honey.'

House moved again in an effort to shift his point of view. He looked his mother deep in the eyes then lowered himself gingerly back against the pillows, panting.

He closed his eyes and breathed the lingering tension out through puffed cheeks.

'The morphine.'

Blythe watched her son fall back into a more restful, gentle sleep. She watched his chest rise and fall and his head flop over to the left. She packed up her things into her handbag and put on her coat.

She would be back tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.


	8. Chapter 8

**Night of the Dripping Tap, Chapter 8**

House counted the seconds in an effort to work out why time was passing both so horribly slowly and so horribly quickly. After getting all the way to twenty-five, his head felt fuzzy and he gave up.

He wondered why there was no clock in the room but was managing _just fine thank you_ to drive himself to the point of insanity by imagining the sound of ticking.

His day had been split into pain checks, hourly obs, visits from his Mom and catnaps of minute proportions. He only seemed able to sleep when he shouldn't have been.

Sometimes, it felt like the nurse had just finished trying to irritate him into wellness when she would reappear with a new IV bag. Sometimes, it felt like she was never coming back. He would fall as though from the top of a roller coast down deep into the sleep of the sick where he knew he was drooling and groaning but he could do nothing about it.

He felt like he was making absolutely no kind of attempt at recovery. He had been hit with infection after infection after infection. The drain was still taking at least 800 mls a day from the surgical site and he was producing only the dribbliest quantities of rancid stool. When he glanced down at the catheter bag, he felt like the pointless middleman between the saline going in and the saline coming out. He was an unnecessary complication in the never-ending cycle of fluidic exchange.

Counting up the bags attached to his IV stand passed some time. _Morphine, check. Antibiotics, check. Saline, check. Fake food, check. _

Counting the collection bags passed some more. _Catheter, check. Drain, check._

When that was done, he tried to close his eyes. Despite the darkness outside and the dimmed lights inside, he knew he'd fallen into the trap of swapping day for night.

Pumps hissed like the automatic air fresheners in public toilets and it was only when he'd tuned his ear to the specific frequency of his own, that he realised another body had been delivered to the bed next to his.

The new guy was snoring gently and seemed thoroughly and peacefully asleep. House turned his head to study his profile and noted how well kept he seemed compared to Barrel-Man and Death-Fart. His hair looked clean and he was close-shaven. He had a good, solid Roman-nose and House guessed he was some kind of CEO of some pointless company.

House's distant examination left him with only a lingering grasp on the guy's diagnosis. His game was off, he knew he was sick.

He closed his eyes again and tried to coax his mind to just slow down and unwind. There was a little ditty running over and over and he couldn't shake it.

'_Down by the sea,_

_That's where you'll find me…_

_Down by the sea,_

_That's were you'll find me…'_

The rhythm it drummed out kept up a marching cadence in his head and it had him totally possessed. Closing his eyes only made it worse. The staggered pattern of hard and soft syllables grew louder and he imagined marching bands trooping in one ear and out of the other.

He scratched at his skin and hated being tied up in a knot of tubes and pain. If he moved even a little bit, his leg reminded him of its existence and his belly burned like he was being branded. He stabbed at the Morphine pump and waited for relief.

When he felt like he couldn't feel any sorrier for himself, the nurse reappeared with a tray of toast.

House watched her hawk-like as she carried her treasure across the room. He hadn't eaten anything of any substance since the wedding and his mouth felt as though slugs were running riot, leaving their gloopy trails all over his teeth.

To bite into that toast… to feel it crunch and the sharp edges hack off the fuzz in his mouth…

Positive she was headed for his sleeping companion, House was actually delighted when she turned toward his bed.

He closed his gaping mouth and swallowed thickly.

She stepped closer and he could smell the chunky, white toast as though it were right under his nose.

His eyes were fixed on his prize and he took a minute to register that she was talking to him.

'I said, Doctor House? We're going to try you with some toast. Now don't try to eat it all at once, your bowel will be very sensitive and we want to see how you get on, okay?'

'Yeah, yeah' he panted, and snatched the plate off the tray.

He brought the toast up to his waiting mouth and crunched into as far as he could. With bulging cheeks he chewed and chewed, and chewed some more.

'Doctor House, take it easy!'

Before he'd quite finished the first mouthful, he took another bite and crammed that into his mouth along with the half-masticated first lot. He swallowed and felt the lumps of mush move over the tube down his oesophagus, making him feel every inch of the alien intrusion, right down to his gut.

His chewing slowed when he realised the tiny bits that had made it into his digestive system were about to be ejected.

He spat the half-chewed bread out onto the tray in front of him as he recognised the first signs of imminent vomiting.

The nurse grabbed an emesis basin quickly shoving it under his chin just as sure enough, his stomach clenched and spasmed and he wretched out the pitiful few crumbs he had managed to get down.

He groaned as his stomach muscles reminded him painfully of their recent violation and fell back against the bed. The nurse wiped at his brow and mouth as she rambled on.

'It's okay Doctor House. That usually happens I'm afraid. Now, you just take it easy and we can try this again later on. You let me know if you need to go to the bathroom okay? I think we'll try to get you up and about, huh?'

He closed his eyes in silent agreement and was thankful that he didn't have a reputation to protect down here. He was acting like a biddable puppy and it felt just a little bit good. _Just a little._

Thinking that he must have drifted off again, he tried to work out how long had passed _post-toast_. He was surprised to find the sun shining through the hazy glass of his room and that there was a small swarm of visitors nattering around CEO's bed.

Turning his head toward the Nurse's Station, he froze in abject terror when he found dear old Uncle Bob staring right at him.

'There he is! How ya' doin' Gregs, huh?!' Without waiting for any kind of reply, Bob continued, 'I said we'd end up at the hospital, didn't I? Well, your mother has been very worried. She doesn't say but I know, you know? Now what're they sayin', Gregs huh? When you getting outta here? Of course, you'll need to come back and stay with your Aunt and me, won't be able to fly for some time huh? Well-'

'Huh?' House managed, horrified.

'That doctor over there, who looks about twelve? He said you wouldn't be able to fly, you'd need to stay right here in Lexington for a week or so…'

House let him ramble on and between thinking that his uncle really mustn't get out much, he started hatching an escape plan.

He hit the call button and when the nurse came in, asked for some help to get to the bathroom.

Uncle Bob looked about him nervously and House took more than a little satisfaction that he had his uncle on edge remembering that beautiful moment back at the house.

As House started to sit up, cradling his stomach and willing his leg to just behave for a second, Bob started to rub at the back of his neck and check his watch.

'Wowzer! Is that the time?! I guess I got carried away, huh Gregs?!'

'Oh, you have to go… so soon?' Even he had to admit this was one of his more 'honest' performances.

'Oh Greg, I hate to leave you here but your mother…and, and um, Sarah… we have a reservation so uh…'

'Well, you all have a great time then.' House feigned disappointment remarkably well and let the tiniest of evil farts rip out like a full stop at the end of a sentence. 'See you then Bob!'

Bob wrinkled his nose and House was happy his aim was so spot on.

'Yeah, now take care Greg, I'll uh, phone uh… bye!' Bob scurried out of the room and House let an evil grin spread across his face like butter melting over toast.

_Now, how was he going to avoid Bob's and make it back to Princeton?_


	9. Chapter 9

**Night of the Dripping Tap, Chapter 9**

Things had started to quieten down on the corridor outside his room and still House stewed and perspired wrapped up in blankets, marooned in his bed.

He guessed that it was nearing dinner time but he wasn't sure. In his real life, his stomach would be growling at him _eat some lunch House, chow down, it's dinner time _but here, his stomach was being filled and emptied by the tubes snaking in through his arm and out through his nose. He needn't be bothered by basic human functionality, he had machines to do that for him.

The weirdest thing though was that his pain wasn't controlling him. Taking charge of his own pre-prescribed doses of Morphine kept him ticking away. Not once had he felt that building crescendo of pain; starting off like the beginnings of an orgasm, moving slowly from _need-to-take-a-pill now,_ to _too-late-you're-fucked_, then had him raging, howling and longing to run off down the street.

Still, he realised that Phase One of his escape plan was coming off the Morphine. Contrary to popular opinion, he didn't actually _like_ being high. Anyway, he wasn't too sure how much longer he could cope with the insane dreams and the resulting lack of sleep.

He relaxed into the trail of his thoughts and wondered just where his mind would take him if he really let go. Once the bunnies had hopped back in to his room however, he forced his mind back to reality; he didn't like the bunnies.

Boredom was setting in. He was getting better and his mind was starting to come out of the funk it had been in and to think again. He had to be getting within a couple of days of being discharged. He knew there were a few things the baby-doc was waiting for; a good bowel movement, some independent mobility, a lower temp and some solid food. House sniggered at the creepy parallels between his infant doctor and the expectations of new parents.

Pushing at the call button for what felt like the hundredth time that day, House sent messages of reinforcement to his digestive tract. He was going for three bites of toast.

'They won't come you know.'

'Excuse me?'

'The nurses, they won't come. I heard some sort of commotion just before you woke up. They're busy.' _Right, he'd forgotten about his room-mate._

'Oh, okay…' House let his voice trail off and wondered when he'd lost his entire personality. He thought it might have been back on Uncle Bob's bathroom floor along with the carrots.

'What ya in for anyway?'

'Huh?' This was getting silly, he checked his balls, _no, still there._

'I'm in for a little liver trouble, how 'bout you?'

'Oh, uh, Diverticulitis…' _how could he have missed something so simple?_

'I don't know that one… so, you're a doctor huh?'

_C__ome on House_, he thought silently, c_rank it up_. 'No, no, that's just my mother's idea of a joke – she was drunk when she named me.' _There ya go, one conversation ended._

'Oh, ha ha very funny! My name's…'

CEO bleeted on and House tuned out. _Really, what was wrong with him? Pathetic._ He stabbed more urgently at the call button now.

They really weren't coming and he couldn't stand much more of this 'friendly patient banter' or whatever they called it in the Ward Dynamics text book he had stored away somewhere in his mind.

He drummed his fingers against the safety rail – there again, he felt like a coddled toddler – and summoned up the strength to try to get out of bed without a fever-stricken mind to motivate him.

He pushed the up button to elevate the head of his bed and let the machinery take the strain. Once upright, mindful of all his accessories, he hooked his hands together under his leg and lifted it up over the side of the bed.

Given its rest in splendid isolation for the past… who knew how long, House wasn't surprised to find that it had totally seized up but the usual pain that accompanied it just wasn't there. Wary, he prodded at the rigid muscle and waited for the coordinating stab of pain. There was none. Morphine was good; but then, that was why he'd had that bit of trouble a few years back and he wasn't going _there_ again.

He stood placing all his weight on his left foot, then, once he was standing upright, he tested out his right. He pressed down with more and more of his body weight and still the leg held. His foot felt swollen and fat, like an over-stuffed sausage but other than that… well, he was okay.

He didn't waste any time questioning this bizarre, but much appreciated, side effect and started to form his steps.

'Hey, you sure that's a good idea? I said, hey? That a good idea?'

'Yup, I'm outta here!' House strode out surely across the room and was heading for the hallway, smirk firmly in place.

Not two seconds later, House collapsed smack onto his ass as though someone had cut his strings.

Craning his head around, CEO mumbled into his newspaper, 'Told you it wasn't a good idea.'

'Got that, thanks.'

House sat on the floor, bare ass feeling every bit of its nakedness. Feeling that no man should suffer the sensation of his most valuable assets vulnerable on hard, cold tiles, he contemplated his next move. He had absolutely no dignity left so anything he did was free of his usual compunction to look at least a little cool. The way he saw it there were two options; one to wait for a nurse to stroll by, and two to ask CEO to hit his call button again.

House chose the third option. He would get up, his stitches would not object, nor would his leg, and he would walk over to the bench just opposite the nurses station, and he would sit there; like a normal person.

Thankfully, the IV stand he had been cursing throughout his stay came in very useful as he hauled himself upright once again. He gave himself just a little bit more time to feel stable and then issued the order to walk; _over there, please._

His body obeyed and House lurched and skidded over to the bench; reaching for it like a marathon runner for the finishing line.

He sat heavily and felt for his pulse whilst he marvelled at how out of breath that whole endeavour had made him. Enjoying his new position, House let his eyes close, just for a moment, and revelled in the fact that he shouldn't be doing this. Then, he remembered that he hadn't spent the night at an illegal rave or scored an ounce of primo hash; he had just managed to walk the four steps from his bed to the bench in the hallway.

It took all of four minutes for him to start to feel bored. He knotted his hands together and felt the pull of the cannula marking its protest. He watched as the skin on his hand stretched thinner allowing the full length of the needle to show more clearly under the surface. He picked at the edges of the tape holding the needle in place and curled it back a little. He was about to pick at the matching port on the other hand when he felt a firm, warm hand on his shoulder.

'Doctor House, is everything alright? What are you doing out here?'

'I uh, wanted some toast.' _What was it with him anyway? _He started to think that the eight inches of removed bowel had been the natural resting place for his mojo, it certainly seemed like the perfect location.

'Look, Doctor House, I get that you're bored. This is a good sign; you're on the mend. Really though, we can't have you on the move without some assistance, who knows what might happen? Okay?'

'Right.' House mumbled apologetically. If Wilson could see him now, he'd never live it down. He started to push himself up from the bench and was secretly glad to find the nurse's strong arm around his shoulders. An angry little spike of pain was poking him right under the mangled skin on his leg.

'We'll just get you right back into bed then we'll see about some toast, huh?'

'Ok.' He thought he sounded a little like Vince from _Pulp Fiction _in the date-with-Mia scene. 'A Royale with cheese…' _he was one stoned House._

'Huh? What did you say?'

He sniggered at his own joke as he relaxed back into his bed. He watched the nurse as she checked his temperature and took his blood pressure. She noted down all his numbers and nodded to herself, satisfied that nothing was amiss.

House pressed the button on his infusion pump listening for the hiss of Morphine to go shooting into his veins. _Maybe the toast could wait until tomorrow._


	10. Chapter 10

**Night of the Dripping Tap, Chapter 10**

House didn't think he'd been sleeping but the clock on his phone revealed that a whole two hours had gone by since he'd last looked. He raised his eyebrows involuntarily in surprise and turned his head to look out of the window. The sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was the kind of day he used to love. The sort of day that held the promise of possibility, that you could see unfolding into something unexpected, or equally, something completely mundane yet wonderful.

He was itchy, antsy, fed-up. His mind was whirring, hatching his break-out, imagining his freedom.

He pushed the call button, stretched his arm over the rail and drummed his fingers across the bedside table. He was just getting into the complicated rhythm of 'The Wicheta Lineman' drum solo and almost had himself up on stage in front of fifteen thousand adoring fans when an annoying cough interrupted him.

'If you don't mind, I'm trying to sleep here.'

'Oh bite me!' House huffed out _just_ under his breath. He half-hoped CEO had heard him… and half-hoped he hadn't. The ground-shaking snore billowing round the room suggested he was in the clear.

House turned on his side and brought his knees up to his belly, ready to get up. He pushed hard with his right arm and got himself into a sitting position.

It was quite disconcerting to know exactly what a body used its stomach muscles for. More disconcerting still, to actually experience the loss of said muscles. It was amazing really when you stopped to think about it. The post-op pain had dialled down to a grumble and was easily controlled by his usual Vicodin regime and he had checked out his scar adding it to all the other accessories of the _War Against House_ adorning his body. In the scheme of things, the angry red line running up from his groin to his belly button ranked second after his leg in the competition for _Biggest Scar Ever_ but there wasn't much point in worrying about it, he knew his garden path would cover it over in no time - _and wasn't he looking forward to his chest hair growing back._

Perched on the edge of his bed, he reached very slowly and very carefully down to his bedside cupboard for his bag of clothes and dragged it up next to him. Opening the plastic bag of his belongings on admission, he found his pyjama pants and the t-shirt he'd been wearing when this whole thing had kicked off. A change of plan then, there was no way he was leaving in his jammies.

He grabbed his phone from the table and dialled his Mom. 'Mom I need you to come over here with my clothes… I know… Yes… You know all that money you loaned me back when I went to College? Turns out they can make you into a Doctor and everything with that kind of dough…Ok, see you.' _Right then, what to do..._

He sat and stared for what had probably been longer than he'd thought and felt his body droop like a floppy old cat on a hot afternoon. He was bone tired and he hadn't done a thing. He lay back against his pillows and rested his eyes for just a second.

When Blythe arrived an hour later, she found her boy fast asleep with his mouth hanging open. Something ruffled him in his dreams and he snapped his mouth shut, flicking at something on his eyebrow.

She was always prepared for the unexpected when it came to her son but she was a little surprised to find him so utterly out of it. He had sounded so determined and 'Greg-like' when he'd phoned.

She sat down in the armchair beside his bed and took out her knitting. Since he'd been admitted, she'd managed a sweater and two scarves. She wondered to whom she would give them now that John wasn't around.

Another hour passed and Greg still hadn't woken. Blythe was pretty happy with the way the booties for her soon-to-be great niece were turning out; a lovely shade of oatmeal and very, very soft. Greg moaned next to her but he still didn't wake. Blythe was pretty sure he would have forgotten all about his great escape when he finally did come round.

She turned at the sound of the door sliding open and smiled at the nurse coming in with evening meals for the patients in the room.

'He still asleep?'

'Yes. He was when I got here. Actually, I wanted to ask… is this… normal?'

'Oh, yes! Don't you worry. Diverticulitis and the surgery really takes it out of you, especially when you're not in the best of health anyway. You should expect him to take at least two months to get back to where he was before. He'll probably need about another three weeks before he goes back to work. I think he's going to have to be very careful getting around so that he doesn't put too much strain on his stomach; what with the leg and all.'

'Oh, right. Thank you. I don't think he would have told me that.' Blythe responded.

'Well, you know how doctors are huh?! If he's not awake in another half hour, I'll come and give him a nudge. We need to take some blood anyway.' She plopped the tray of food down on his table and asked, 'Want me to leave this here in case?'

Blythe nodded a 'yes', and found herself lost in thought. It was strange to hear someone else describing her son and his leg like that. Though she could read Greg like a book, he worked very hard to conceal his disability, even to her. He never talked about in their phone calls and tried his very best to appear _un-cripplish_ as he described it.

He had always been so _vital_.

Her maudlin musings were brought to an abrupt halt with the sound of a rough, deep voice, 'Oh God, you're not trying to make me feel guilty again are you?'

'Gregory! You're awake! I've been here ages – I brought your clothes. How are you?'

'You know there is no way there are going to be any little Gregs running around, don't you?'

'Oh Gregory, just answer my question will you?!'

'I'm okay Mom. I just really need to get out of here.' As he spoke, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stifled a yawn.

'Oh really?! You know what son, I think you ought to just think about staying another night. You seem pretty tired.' She laid her hand across his, avoiding the cannula, and gave it a tight squeeze. 'Just rest honey, you've been sick, you had surgery.'

'I did? Gee, when did that happen? Got my jeans there?' He pushed the call button whilst he fished about in the bag his mother had brought for his clothes. Once he'd found some jeans, a T-shirt and some clean underwear, he headed off to the bathroom.

Blythe watched with an open mouth and had to let out a small laugh, more stubborn than a camel filling his hump. Ever since she had realised that Greg was an inherently mischievous character, she'd had no option but to roll with him. John had gone the disciplinarian route and look how that had turned out.

The nurse came bustling into the room and glanced around looking for the inhabitant of House's bed. 'Can I help anyone?' she asked quizzically.

In what seemed like two seconds, House came lumbering out of the bathroom shirtless. He dragged the IV stand behind him and Blythe realised that he'd been unable to get dressed thanks to the lines still dosing him with saline and antibiotics.

'Yup, I'm heading out and thought I should just say goodbye and how thankful I am.'

Blythe cocked her eyebrow and waited for the punch-line she knew was coming.

'Then I decided that wouldn't match my style… so I'm outta here!'

'Dr House, really! The doctor is on his way to take some blood and talk to you about your diet I-'

'Did you miss the class where they told you about _doctors_? Or where you too busy shovelling the candy?' he smiled sweetly and waited for his words to have their desired effect.

The nurse stared at him and shot back a reply, 'No, did you miss the one where they taught you about manners?' with that, she snapped around and headed out of the door, 'I'll get you the AMA forms'.

'Make it the '_With _Medical Advice'forms and I'll sign.'

Blythe sighed and hung her head down, ashamed, yet completely used to her son's take on the rules of society.

House grabbed a handy stack of cotton, sat himself on the bed and took a deep breath. He capped off the lines and held a piece of the cotton over the cannula and pulled.

Blythe couldn't help but stare. She had never seen anyone taking one of those things out, never mind the patient himself. 'Are you sure you should be doing that, honey?'

House shot her a glance, 'Mom, remember the whole _doctor_ thing we talked about?!'

'Ok son, ok.' She really shouldn't have asked. She glanced down at the dressings covering his stomach and cringed. She remembered back to the infarction and the last time she had seen the scar on his leg. This one looked to be pretty big too.

Once he'd pulled out the left side, he switched his attention to his right hand. It wasn't quite as easy given that he was using his weaker hand but with a bit of tugging, it came away. He dabbed at the trickle of blood escaping from his vein and once it had stopped, he pulled the t-shirt over his head, wincing as he stretched his belly, and popped his arms into the sleeves.

Snapping on his sneakers, he grabbed his cane and tugged at his t-shirt, 'Elvis is leaving the building!'

House stepped confidently forward and then hesitated, 'Beauty before age, Mom'. He swept his arm in front of him, you had to hand it to him, Gregory House knew how to make an exit.

_Thanks for reading! Big thanks go out to Iyimgrace for her superb betaing help – I meant to do this for the last few chapters but my feeble mind wouldn't let me work out how to do it in – I know… I am that rubbish at computers. _


	11. Chapter 11

**Night of the Dripping Tap, Chapter 11**

Blythe had agreed _very_ quickly to make the drive back to Princeton. She had only ever been able to take so much of Bob and Sarah's company. The day John's sister had married _that_ man had been one of the low points in the House family story, starting with the shot-gun wedding -_like mother like daughter it turned out_ - and ending with the all out brawl between Houses and Buntins – _and God, what a surname she'd landed herself with._

House hadn't actually dared to ask for a ride but couldn't believe his luck when his mom had set off straight from the hospital for Princeton- complete with loaded trunk and sat-nav. She'd offered no explanation but he knew as good as anyone, she had no time for his uncle either. House and his mom were more alike than appearance would have you believe.

Fields of wheat and tobacco whipped past the periphery of his vision blurring green and yellow, smudging like a painting. With the window wound half way down, he felt the overpowering smell of the pastoral blast through the funk of sterility wedged in his nostrils.

The wind felt good on his skin and he closed his eyes allowing himself to be blown along with the ether.

'You know Greg, you should really…' Blythe didn't really want to get into _this _conversation so soon into their journey. Yet, she couldn't help herself.

House forced himself to reply despite the overwhelming need he had to fall asleep, 'What Mom? What should I really?'

'It doesn't matter honey,' she backed off thinking better of it, 'I'm sticking my nose where it doesn't belong.'

He was happy with her excuse. From experience he knew conversations that began that way rarely ended well for him. He turned his head back to lean against the cool glass of the car door. The anaesthetic was still playing havoc with his body clock and he could barely keep his eyes open. As he dropped off, he could feel his forehead slipping down and his mouth opening involuntarily; he must look a real tool to the thousands of drivers speeding past them on the freeway. Like he'd been hurled at the window and stuck like a stale piece of gum.

Blythe drove her usual ten under the limit and kept her hands fixed in the ten-to-two position. Every few seconds, she checked her rear-view mirror and committed to memory the make and colour of the car behind her as though prepping for a test that would never come.

She could hear Greg snoring gently in the passenger seat and let herself sneak a glance at him. He looked a little thinner, a little greyer and much hairier but otherwise, he looked okay. She couldn't count the times she had driven him home from the hospital. As a child he'd been so accident prone. There'd been that time he'd spilt his head open on the hearth when he was three, the broken arm after his sixth birthday party, the tonsillectomy… she forgot the rest.

This whole thing had been strange though. John wasn't around anymore, Greg had gone to the wedding, actually turned up – that was weird enough. That everything had ended up with Greg having his belly cut open really shouldn't have surprised her. _Expect the unexpected_ had been her mantra through life with her boy.

Blythe couldn't get her head around the grown man next to her. In some ways, she _knew_ him inside and out. She'd changed his diaper, she agonised over his weight-gain as a baby, pored over the height charts as he'd shot up during his adolescence. Worried, God had she worried.

When she looked at him, all she saw was the blond haired cherub he'd been as a boy, those massive blue eyes he would turn up at her sorrowfully. Odd then that this grizzly man folded up in her compact should be anything to do with her.

She hadn't meant to put that crease in his jeans. She was just so used to ironing John's clothes that she hadn't given it a second thought. Unless he'd worn the wedding suit home, he'd had no choice. That the weather had turned cooler also meant of course, that she had found someone to wear the lovely sweater she had made. He never had been fond of wearing her endeavours of the knitted kind. Strangely though, it did give her a bizarre sense of satisfaction that he had no other option. It had taken her forty years to get him back into one of her creations.

The miles ticked by on her odometer and the scenery grew more verdant the further north they drove. House slumbered on in the passenger seat and Blythe distracted herself from the monotony by humming through a cello piece by Elgar.

She left him snoring as she pulled in at a rest stop to visit the ladies' room. She bought a coffee for herself, another for Greg and couldn't help buying a sneaky bar of chocolate; she did have a slightly obsessive tendency to overindulge in her passion for the dark-stuff.

Walking back to the car, she thumbed the key-fob and heard the locks release. The noise woke House from his dreams and he muttered something unintelligible while she waited for his brain to engage. She gave him the time it took her to finish off the last of her coffee, and manoeuvre the little Ford back out onto the freeway.

'You know son, I never can tell whether you're being clever or dumb.'

'What?' he waited for an explanation, and didn't get one. 'You're going to leave it hanging in the air like that? Okay, I'll bite. Clever or dumb?'

'Yes. Clever or dumb.'

'Right, Mom.'

He shut his mouth against every single last fibre of will in his body. He had learned the hard way over his fifty years on Earth that some things were better left to resolve on their own.

When he'd figured that one out though, he hadn't counted on his Mom having made it there already. He counted to ten in the hope she would elaborate, and could stand it no longer.

'Mom?'

'You, Gregory, are a doctor.'

'Yes…'

'And you, Gregory have just suffered through a round of surgery for Diverticulitis.'

'Again, yes…'

'You know, things have got to change? Right?'

'I think you mentioned that before, Mom.'

'You see, that's where I have the upper hand. I know you better than you know yourself. You think you are above the ordinary, mortal folk that walk freely on this earth.'

'Well, my status as _Lord of all the Universe_ does afford me _some_ hyper-inflated idea of my own self-worth.'

Blythe went on, ignoring him as she went, 'Well, this time, there are no short measures, no short cuts. You have to pay this some heed. You can't ignore this.'

'You know what, I was wondering what that strange little itch all the way up my abdomen was. You're saying there was some kind of surgery? And like, surgery is some how… what's the phrase… bad?'

'Gregory.'

'Mom.'

'You have to listen to that doctor. You have to adjust your diet, listen to your body and take care of yourself-'

'-I-'

'You can't rely on your brain here, Greg. This is more than your sum parts. This is a warning shot. Since your leg…' she let her words settle into the atmosphere and sink into his mind.

'Can we not do this, Mom, please?'

'It needs to be said honey. At least… just give it some thought huh? Devote some of that expensive brain we invested so heavily in to it… if only because my retirement plan kind of depends on my rich doctor son being around for a while.' She patted him on the leg and smiled – never letting her eyes stray from the road.

House turned his head back to lean against the window. He had to hand it to her; she knew how to work him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Night of the Dripping Tap, Chapter 12**

The lights on the sidewalk burned a deep pink and winked on in succession, as though they were guiding the little Ford home. Blythe breathed out a long sigh as she turned into House's street and the Sat Nav announced she had reached her destination. Pulling into a parking space, she knocked the gear stick into neutral, pulled on the parking break and turned the engine off. Once she was sure the car was not going anywhere, she rubbed her son's arm and called his name.

'Greg, honey. We've arrived.'

He snorted awake, instantly rubbing at the ever-present ache in his thigh.

'It's dark, how long have I been sleeping?'

'Judging by the snoring? I'd say, almost the entire journey between here and there.'

'How 'bout that?' He liked it when tedious journeys slipped by in the blink of an eye.

He levered himself out of his mother's rental and shivered as his body registered the drop in temperature now they were back in the north. Blythe struggled to lift his overnight bag out of the car and he limped off stiffly to avoid watching her. He felt a million years old, like his body was threadbare and might give in with an almighty twang at any second.

Fortunately, Wilson was waiting, as promised, on House's stoop for them to arrive. Recognising her struggle, he sprinted across the road and grabbed the bag.

'Thank you for being here, James.' Blythe whispered in his ear, taking advantage of House's lack of pace.

'Don't mention it. Thanks for calling, Mrs House.'

'James, I'm no idiot. God knows he wouldn't have told you himself.'

'Right, you have him there.' Wilson chuckled as he hopped up the steps with Blythe in his wake.

As House lumbered after them, Wilson hopped from one foot to the other like an over-excited child, struggling to contain the laughter that was threatening to burst out of his gut. Using his key to open the door, he kissed Blythe once on the cheek, then hurried her into the living room.

He managed to snap on the kettle and turn the lamps on before House made his painful way into his apartment releasing an audible groan of relief. With a stupid grin splattered across his face, words spilled out of Wilson's mouth almost faster than he could think them. _This was priceless._

'Do you know? Have you heard? There's this new, unheard of and incredibly rare digestive disorder? I heard form Raymann down in Nevada that a young ingénue, _Grog Condo_ or something, discovered it. I hear it's all the rage in the suburbs!'

'Go away Wilson.'

'No seriously, it's so rare that only the world's foremost diagnostician has seen it. Wait now while I think of the name of it… ah yes… it's Divetium? No wait, Divolia? That's it-'

'-yeah yeah yeah, I get it. You don't think the irony was lost on me too? What are you doing here anyway?'

Wilson brushed off House's question with a flick of his hand, 'I would ask a normal person how they were feeling but seeing as it's you…'

'Yeah yeah yeah, got that one too. If you don't mind, I'm just gonna flick through my TiVO and wait for you to blend into background noise.'

'Wait, you think I'm going to let this one go?! You think that late at night, on the verge of some brilliant diagnosis I'm not going to floor you with your, what was it? _Appendix _call?'

Blythe piped in from the kitchen, 'You know honey? I was a little surprised myself when it turned out to be Diverticulitis and not appendicitis- like you said to the paramedic, remember?'

Wilson bustled off to join Blythe, and House turned the volume up to _uncomfortably loud_. He'd even had it from Uncle Bob on that one, 'Have either of you ever actually had to diagnose yourself while simultaneously trying _not_ to die?

He listened as Wilson and his mom busied themselves preparing some unpalatable, high fibre food, clinking and clonking around his kitchen. Wilson really was becoming more and more like his mom.

'Then there's the outfit House. Really, I don't think I've ever seen quite a… what's the phrase now? _Unique _blend of styles.'

Wilson prattled on and House checked out the razor-edge crease in his jeans and pulled at the hideous hand-knitted sweater swamping his skinny frame.

He thought back to the conversation he and his Mom had had in the car and couldn't let the opportunity to ridicule pass him up. 'You know, my _Mom_ knitted this.'

Wilson dropped the glass bowl he was using, making it clatter, much like his 'joke'. 'Oh, um, Mrs House, I'm sorry, I, I-'

Blythe continued stirring her coffee whilst she replied, 'Don't give it a second thought. It's a horrible sweater. My mind wasn't on design as I made it, you know?' She popped her head around to face the lounge so she could give House the 'Mom Glare' for his efforts.

He actually didn't have it in him to think up another witty retort. He could feel the beginnings of sleep nagging at his edges, imploring him to surrender once again.

Seeing that he wasn't going to retaliate, she asked quietly, 'You okay honey?'

'Yeah…' House huffed as he lumbered off toward his bedroom.

_His bedroom… _his bed had taken on mythic proportions during his stay with the nearly dead. He had dreamed of slipping beneath _his _sheets, _his_ comforter.

He sat gingerly on the edge of his bed waiting for his abdominal muscles to relax enough to let him lie down. He felt them stretch and groan before flopping down on the mattress with the pillows enveloping his head. Closing his eyes, he let out a long, soft and grateful breath. Within seconds he was hovering just on the verge of sleep, listening to the murmuring of his mom and Wilson as they sat drinking coffee and eating who knew what.

Assuming that Wilson would be trying to convince Blythe to stay at his apartment, and knowing she would refuse the offer and check into her regular hotel, House felt an overwhelming sense of order and rightness. Everyone was playing their part exactly as they should.

He was back where he belonged. He had to admit, he felt kind of good, relaxed, content.

From the depths of a sleep that had finally pulled him under, he jerked awake when he heard the door to his apartment squeak as it closed. Knowing he was finally alone, he turned his pillow over to the cool side and lay back into it. There was silence, peace…

Something wasn't quite right.

He sat up in his bed, holding his stomach together as he did.

Senses bristling with adrenaline, he turned on the bedside light and turned his head, pointing his ear toward the door.

Somewhere in the apartment, there was a feint but regular sound that his sleepy mind couldn't quite figure out.

More irritating than fearsome, the noise was incessant enough to wake him fully and force him up out of his bed.

Stumbling though shadows and light cast by the streetlights outside, the noise grew louder in his mind, getting stronger as he neared the source.

Limping through dark rooms one by one, his cane struck the ground in time with the _dunk, tap, tink_ of the mystery sound.

When he reached the kitchen, the last room to investigate, he stopped in the doorway and let the sound fill his ears, his head.

Lurching forward, he turned off the tap that had been left dripping endlessly over the cups and bowls waiting in the sink, turning it more tightly than necessary.

With a curse, he limped back to his bedroom, clambered under the sheets and dropped down into a deep, deep sleep.

_Damn dripping tap._

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_So here we are, the end has come, it's time to face, the final curtain and all that. Huge thanks to everyone who sent lovely reviews and to everyone who has secretly been reading whilst hiding under their 'lurking rocks'. Big, big thanks to Verb and to Iyimgrace for all their ace beta-ing help and general wonderfulness. Thanks for reading!_


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